


Derek Makes His Clothes Fall Off

by crazyparakiss



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Operation Positivity, Tumblr Askbox Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is starting to get ridiculous. Stiles really needs to quit losing his pants in front of Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Derek Makes His Clothes Fall Off

**Author's Note:**

> Un-Beta'd five times fic for an anon askbox prompt at my tumblr for Operation Positivity. Mostly, it's supposed to be crack. I hope it makes Nonny smile :)
> 
> Got a prompt you want filled for Operation Positivity? Leave me a prompt and I will try to fill it http://flailyfangirljargon.tumblr.com/

The first time it’s a witch. She comes out of fucking _nowhere_ and runs into the woods cackling like a madwoman while carrying Stiles’s shredded jeans and underwear like a national flag. He watches, feeling rather helpless, as his nuts grow cold in the Californian winter. “Awesome,” he mutters and straightens his shoulders. Determined to get out of this with a small scrap of dignity.

 

Of course, whatever hope of making it to Derek’s Camaro without being seen to retrieve his gym shorts is shot when he finds Derek leaning casually against the sleek black paint. He doesn’t say a word, but Stiles presses his mouth into a tight line when Derek cocks an eyebrow. Hazel eyes flick down to his exposed, _freezing_ , cock and Stiles’s face burns with humiliation. This is a great start to his winter vacation, fucking fantastic he thinks bitterly as he marches past Derek and wrenches open the car door. He’s too irritated to feel ashamed when he leans into the back seat, leaving his white ass pointed in Derek’s direction as he grabs his spare shorts.

 

He misses the strangled noise Derek emits while he bitches beneath his breath about having to concoct yet another lie for his dad. He’s losing count of them, and the guilt’s getting hard to deal with.

 

 

 

His second depantsing is a very public affair. Stiles is convinced ghosts are the actual worst, or maybe being in Derek’s presence when showing his junk is the worst—but they are neck in neck, tied for first. So, to be honest, ghosts aren’t the worst— _this ghost_ is, and that’s because it’s got a fucking sense of _humor_. What the fuck, even? Unlike the witch who was just trying to distract Stiles off of her trail, this ghost is trying to make him the laughing stock of the town by flashing his goods in the middle of the Fourth of July parade.

 

All Stiles can do when he feels the warm breeze against his privates is grit his teeth around an irritated smile and bear it. A woman screams, and some guy calls him a pervert—which, yeah, not his finest moment—as his dad runs over. “Jesus, Stiles,” he shouts as he yanks off his jacket. “Have you been drinking?”

 

That’s a normal response, Stiles supposes, but it’s still zings him with hurt. “No, Dad, I’m not drunk—haven’t had a drop all night if you can believe it.” He opts for bullshitting, because anymore it’s the only way he’ll have a halfway decent relationship with his dad. “I think one of the fireworks went weird and came right at me, you know, uh, igniting my pants and batman boxers—which is kind of a shame because I _really_ liked those boxers!”

 

Dad’s got that look on his face. The one that says _I don’t believe a word you’re saying, but you’re my son and I want to believe in you_ and it sucks so hard when he gives his dad a brittle smile and a what can ya do shoulder shrug.

 

“Just get to the car, and get your ass home,” he sighs shooing Stiles in the direction of the car lot.

 

 

A week and a half later he’s got a pair of batman boxers folded neatly on his bed when he stumbles in after a party. He thanks his dad for them over breakfast, and his dad gives him a confused look that has Stiles’s stomach flip-flopping with apprehension.

 

 

 

The third time is just _tragic_ in the fact that it has nothing to do with anything remotely Supernatural. No, it just has to do with Stiles’s horrible balance and general inability to stay still or upright. He’s helping Derek put in training weights and other body sculpting devices when he stumbles over the toe of his shoe and goes spiraling towards the floor. Derek moves to grab him, but catches the band of his jeans and yeah one hundred and forty pounds of sarcasm falling at a velocity of fast plus super human strength equals a huge rip. Right down the leg of his jeans, and wouldn’t you know he went commando today. Typical of his luck.

 

Derek just kind of stares. Which is creepy, and Stiles tries not to notice the way Derek’s nostrils flare because, again, _creepy_. Stiles downplays the situation as best he can by saying, “Um, Derek, could I maybe get some pants, or something—because I feel like my maidenly virtue is being taken advantage of.”

 

He doesn’t laugh like Stiles hopes, nor does he scowl like he normally does in Stiles’s presence. Derek’s reaction is _new_ and unexpected—leaving Stiles reeling in the face of a bright red flush tinging Derek’s cheeks. He’s opening his mouth to say something, but Derek’s a blur as he darts from the room.

 

Stiles is at a loss for quite a few minutes, before deciding it’s a mega waste of time trying to decipher the eccentricities of the resident emotionally stunted Alpha Hale. He’s gathering up some weights, putting them near the stack of training equipment that’s too heavy for Stiles, when something soft and cool hits him in the side of his face.

 

His black gym shorts, he notices when he lifts them off the scarred wooden floor. A glance around doesn’t reveal Derek, and Stiles looks around in silent confusion before slipping into the shorts and leaving.

 

 

 

As time number four comes Stiles decides this is becoming a recurring problem, and wonders if the universe is conspiring to make him a nudist or, at the very least, get him arrested as a serial flasher. He’s with Lydia and Scott and the rest of Team Werewolf in some deserted back alley when they’re attacked by some pants stealing monster who just decides Stiles needs to be its victim. And, of course, the damn thing doesn’t take anyone else’s pants—that would be fair and just in a world that is anything but to Stiles.

 

Lydia doesn’t bother trying to hide her laugh and Erica’s grin is wide and predatory—both of them leave Stiles feeling terribly exposed. Scott, his asshole best friend, doesn’t do much more than shrug in a _what can you do_ manner. Stiles makes a very disgruntled face at him, before he looks over at Isaac and Boyd. Both of whom have become suddenly interested in various pieces of trash littering the ground. _Asshats, the both of them_ , he thinks as he tries to fight the itch to cover himself—that would just give Erica and Lydia more reason to mock him, Stiles is sure.

 

He’s about to say something because the silence annoys him and he’s self-conscious and hyper aware of his junk dangling out for the world to see. But before he can start defending his dick’s honor by embarrassing himself further with shouts of _I’m a grow-er not a show-er_ Derek’s in front of him, shielding his body from view.

 

“Oh God,” he moans dramatically as he hides his face in his hand, and Derek snorts.

 

“I thought you wanted someone to defend your, what did you call it, _maidenly virtue_?” And Stiles wants to die from the dry tone Derek uses. It’s been _three months_ since that day in the loft, so he feels Derek should not be able to use that against him now. Derek’s supposed to be a Neanderthal who doesn’t remember a thing Stiles says, and he certainly shouldn’t be allowed to use Stiles’s glowing and charming wit against him in times of great duress.

 

But what would life be without Derek Hale, the incredibly hot ridiculously surly Alpha werewolf? Dull and less humiliating Stiles assumes.

 

“Fine, while you’re at it—gracious knight—how about you get me something to cover my dick? My balls are not a fan of the dark.” He’s not sure but he thinks he sees Derek’s red gaze flick down before quickly moving back up, and he knows the embarrassment must be getting to him when he thinks he sees a small smile twitching at the corner of Derek’s mouth.

 

Derek throws him over his shoulder, and covers his ass with Isaac’s stolen leather jacket before dragging him off to the Camaro. He dumps Stiles in on the driver’s side and hands him a pair of pajama pants that just happened to be in the back of Derek’s car.

 

He snorts when Derek hands them to him, “Dude, I have a feeling you’re starting to prepare for my naked ass—which is both flattering and disconcerting.”

 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

 

“Yep, shutting up,” he says pulling on ninja turtle pajama pants—distantly wondering why Derek bought the pajama bottoms Stiles has been eyeing, in secret, for a few weeks.

 

 

 

When he loses his pants, again, for the fifth time Stiles has had it up to HERE with having his junk out for the world to see. Which is ironic because he’s been gung-ho for someone to willing look at his dick for years. But _this_ is ridiculous because he’s, once again, pantsless in front of Derek. The guy he doesn’t want touching his junk. Okay, that’s a _lie_ , he’d gladly let Derek touch his dick—he’s just certain Derek will _never_ want to touch his dick and Stiles likes to say he’d hate having Derek sex him because it makes rejection easier to take.

 

So when Derek makes a startled noise Stiles assumes it’s because they are covered in a disgusting glob of slime that he’s sure came from the guts of that thing Derek just killed (much to Scott’s dismay). Stiles just wishes Derek killed it _before_ it robbed him of his pants and boxers, but no Derek likes to wait until shit gets real before he starts pulling out the claws. Along with his skivvies this gelatinous spewing thing took a chunk out of Stiles’s leg and that’s when Derek decided enough was enough.

 

“Jesus fuck, Derek,” Stiles grumbles as he flings more goo off of himself. “Couldn’t you have killed that thing before it stole my pants?”

 

“I’ll take that into consideration next time,” Derek says, but his tone is off. Lacking his usual heat and irritation, and so Stiles glances over at him out of that annoying obligation to feel worried. Derek’s looking off—eyes wide and mouth parted as he stares below Stiles’s chest line. Following Derek’s line of sight Stiles flushes and immediately moves to cover himself because he’s half hard and while being exposed to the eyes of everyone around him is awful; being half hard and exposed is downright _devastating_ because that’s private and shouldn’t be used as a source for humiliating him further.

 

“Can’t you look somewhere else?” He yells while his cheeks burn with shame and Derek snaps out of his weird trance. Looking mildly ashamed as he glances away from Stiles’s body, and in a very uncharacteristic display of compassion removes his own jeans and hands them to Stiles. He gapes at Derek who is standing there in his bloody goo covered wife-beater and black briefs holding out his dirty pants for Stiles to take. He does, tentatively, and swallows when he notices how tense Derek is—the grinding of his jaw and the not so subtle flare of his nose when Stiles moves the air around them with his motions.

 

 _Oh my God_. Derek wants to bone him. _Fuck_. It’s painfully obvious as he looks at Derek’s concealed dick that’s standing hard beneath the stretched fabric of his briefs. Stiles is too panicked to say anything as he yanks on the disgusting jeans that are a bit too large for him and hurries out of the woods to his car.

 

Later, when he’s back in his room he has a ~~minor~~ major freak out and tries to figure out when he became attractive to Derek. Then he wonders if he’s _always_ been attractive to Derek because he has a really weird fucked up way of showing his desire if that’s the case.

 

He tries not to think about it when he climbs into bed, after a long shower, but he stays awake all night due to the inability to turn his brain off.

 

 

 

The next time he sees Derek they’re alone, again, in his loft. Only Stiles feels extremely awkward this time around because now he knows Derek had a boner for his boner and that’s just…he doesn’t even know. It’s fucking _complicated_ , and normally complicated doesn’t bother him, but this is _his_ complicated situation and he only likes complicated when it’s not his problem.

 

And the awkward goes up a notch, or twelve, when Derek starts doing very un-Derek things. Like cleaning up messes that aren’t there and falling over himself while blushing when he notices Stiles is watching. Geez, it’s so weird and painful to watch. Stiles will gladly take those far off days where Derek told him he’d have to cut off his arm over this shit.

 

Rubbing his fingers across his forehead and down over his eyes, Stiles, says, “Derek,” with a wince in his tone. Derek notices and stills, looking for all the world like a deer waiting to be rammed by a car. “Can you just chill the fuck out? _This_ ,” he gestures around himself with wild motions, “Is a tad bit ridiculous.” He watches Derek swallow, and offers him a sarcastic smile, “Wanting to bone me shouldn’t make you an awkward fucking mess.” Derek looks half ready to protest, or throw him into something, when Stiles says, “Seriously, man, cause I really want to fuck you, too.”

 

 

This time when Stiles loses his pants to Derek’s amazing hands he’s totally willing to have Derek see and touch his dick. And he’s all too willing to taste Derek’s in return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
